We were heading for war...and the Commons blamed me

Twenty years ago, Argentina invaded the Falklands Islands and triggered a war with Britain. In exclusive extracts from his candid memoirs, former Defence Secretary John Nott - the man at the centre of the crisis - finally reveals details of the internal war that raged in both Westminster and the White House

I HATE war; the thought of sending young men and women away to fight is repugnant to me. Yet, at the beginning of April 1982, I agreed, with my immediate colleagues, that we had no option but to do so; and we sent them to the other side of the world, at huge risk, across 8,000 miles of ocean. It ended in triumph and tragedy - 255 British lost their lives and many more were wounded. Nor should we forget the rollcall of 750 Argentine dead, brought about needlessly by the fascist leaders of their country.

Throughout the campaign, I had an uncomfortable time - not as uncomfortable or as dangerous as the sailors, soldiers and airmen that we sent to war, but difficult none the less. As the spokesman for our forces in the House of Commons, I had to explain and answer for events over which I had very limited control. I had to agree statements that were, by necessity, based on the shortest and flimsiest information from the fleet, while at the same time, the world media, led by the BBC, were pumping out contrary Argentine propaganda. I had to argue with the Foreign Office, which frequently wished to postpone military activity when it conflicted with diplomatic negotiations.

I had a particularly difficult time with some colleagues - alternately doubting and frenetic - in the House of Commons. And, at times, I had to disagree with a bevy of admirals on how and when we would issue statements about casualties and losses to the fleet.

By March 30, 1982, it had become clear through intercepted Argentine signals that a major crisis was about to hit us and that an invasion of the Falklands was planned for Friday, April 2. I immediately arranged a meeting with the Prime Minister.

Initially, we were concerned with how we could react diplomatically. But then Admiral Sir Henry Leach, the First Sea Lord, joined our meeting - dressed in full naval uniform. The sight of a man in uniform always pleases the ladies, and Margaret was clearly impressed.

With great assurance, Leach said that it was possible to prepare a large task force that could be ready to sail early the following week. This greatly boosted Margaret's confidence - but was met by some scepticism among the rest of us. Henry was a sailor in the best Nelsonian tradition, whose philosophy was "Sail at the enemy and do not hesitate about the consequences". But he was not exactly a "cerebral man", so I was not going to take his assurances just like that.

Later, when alone with Margaret, I expressed my doubts about an opposed landing 8,000 miles away, without any air cover. She said: "I suppose you realise, John, that this is going to be the worst week of our lives." I responded: "Well, that may be so, but I imagine that each successive week will be worse than the last." It was not a helpful exchange at that particular juncture. Nevertheless, we gave Henry Leach authority to make preparations.

By Sunday, April 4, two days after the Argentine invasion, the task force was taking shape. Yet, one of the most vexing questions, extraordinary as it seems, was whether we could say that we were at war. Evidently not; we were strongly advised by the Foreign Office lawyers not to declare war, but to act entirely under Article 51 of the United Nations Charter, which gave the right to countries to act in their own self-defence.

This legal distinction caused no end of puzzlement in the Ministry of Defence - and when asked the question in the Commons, I said, "No, we are not at war," which caused some mirth.

That same Sunday, I took a helicopter to Portsmouth to visit the fleet. Over that weekend, apart from the hectic efforts of the Royal Navy and all the dockyard workers, the whole of the Army in southern England had effectively been mobilised to move the war reserves to the fleet. The Territorial Army, in particular, played a key role in transporting equipment and stores to Devonport and Plymouth: without it, we would have been hard put to get the fleet away on time.

My visit was an emotional occasion. Unknown to the press, when I had visited the same port less than a year earlier I had been besieged by rioting dockyard workers, protesting about defence cuts and redundancies. As soon as I had opened my mouth to speak, a hail of metal bolts and other dangerous missiles had been hurled in my direction, shattering the glass of several windows and doors. Amazingly, nothing struck me. Hampshire police were called in, and when I left in a coach, the men hurled more missiles at it, leaving several officials covered in shattered glass.

This time, as I was about to go on board HMS Hermes, I saw a group of the same workers standing on the dockside. I went up to speak to them. For me, this was one of the most poignant memories of the whole Falklands affair, because these were the very men whom I was putting out of work. Several had received their redundancy notices a few days before; but in spite of that, they'd all rallied round, working day and night. I must have been a real nightmare to them.

However, although I had been in the centre of a very emotional row about the future of the Royal Navy over the preceding six to nine months, and although there must have been a number of sailors on board Hermes who felt that I was responsible for having taken totally wrong decisions, none of this came out at all during my visit.

I sensed that these naval officers and dockyard workers did not see me as a visiting politician now, but acknowledged that I was there as the Defence Secretary; that the nation had a crisis; and that we just had to work together to put on a good show. It shows how much this country does come together in times of crisis, and in a quite astonishing way.

On Monday, April 5, the fleet sailed. Like everybody else, I had tears in my eyes: I prayed that they would come home safely.

The first meeting of the War Cabinet took place two days later. The new Foreign Secretary Francis Pym, who had succeeded Peter Carrington, was making determined efforts to achieve a diplomatic solution, but was somewhat frustrated by the balance of sentiment among us. I felt it was important to understand his position and help him with it: Margaret Thatcher was not good at conciliation with her colleagues. She preferred the bludgeon to the rapier.

She and Francis approached the negotiations from opposite directions, and there was a frequent clash of wills. Francis seemed to want to avoid an ugly battle at all costs; he had seen war himself. He also knew, as I did, that we were insufficiently resourced to meet the Soviet threat to Nato, let alone future threats in the South Atlantic. Moreover, on his several visits to Washington, he must have been increasingly influenced to think that this whole exercise was beyond our capability.

Margaret Thatcher had, I believe, made up her mind at the outset that the only way we could regain our national honour and prestige was by inflicting a military defeat on Argentina. But this did not prevent the painful and endless negotiations for a diplomatic settlement - led by Al Haig, the American Secretary of State.

These negotiations not only produced personal clashes within the Cabinet but also strained Britain's relationship with the United States. At least they filled a horrible vacuum while the task force made its long, long voyage towards Antarctica.

The issue of America's involvement in the crisis is a crucial one. Certain Americans, of course, such as Casper Weinberger, the US Defence Secretary, were splendid from the outset.

But the State Department, at this time, was dominated by Latinos who saw President Reagan's Latin American policy going down the drain. Jeane Kirkpatrick, the American Ambassador to the UN, had even dined with the Argentines on the evening that they invaded British territory.

It took weeks of determined diplomacy by Sir Nicholas Henderson, our ambassador in Washington, before the White House was prepared to declare itself on the side of the British. Moreover, it did so, I suspect, only because Congress and American public opinion had come down heavily on our side. By doing so, it destroyed the support of the South American dictators for Reagan's anti-communist crusade in Central America.

As the Falklands conflict developed, America stopped arms sales to Argentina, but was unwilling to take more effective economic measures. Nicholas Henderson reported that the Americans were not prepared to "tilt" too heavily against Argentina; to do so, they said, would deprive them of their influence in Buenos Aires.

They did not want the Argentine dictator General Leopoldi Galtieri to fall - whereas we saw him as an outright fascist and aggressor. For the Americans, he was a central pillar of resistance to communism in South and Central America - and all the efforts of Reagan and the State Department were concentrated on the crisis in El Salvador.

The United States, it seemed, did not wish to choose between Britain and their interests in Latin America. Indeed, apart from Weinberger and the Pentagon, the Americans were very, very far from being on our side.

If Washington had been in the hands of the East Coast Wasps (White Anglo-Saxon Protestants) instead of the West Coast Americans, with their overriding concern for the Americas, things might have been different.

But the State Department, the White House security staff and the president himself were, privately, never wholly committed to our cause. For all Margaret Thatcher's friendship with Ronald Reagan, he remained a West Coast American looking south to Latin America and west to the Pacific. Sometimes, I wondered if he even knew or cared where Europe was.

So, the Americans gave every assistance to the United Nations and every other mediator - Brazilian, Mexican and the rest - to bring about a negotiated settlement, on terms which would have been seen as a surrender in the United Kingdom. Then, in the closing stages of the conflict, when we had already lost many ships and men, they leant heavily on us - aided by telephone calls from Reagan to Thatcher - to find some way of saving Galtieri's face. "Magnanimity before victory" became their watch-phrase.

In many ways, Mitterrand and the French were our greatest allies. They had supplied the Argentines with Mirage and Super Etendard aircraft in the earlier years; but, as soon as the conflict began, Mitterrand's defence minister got in touch with me to make some of these available so that our Harrier pilots could train against them before setting off for the South Atlantic. The French also supplied us with detailed technical information on the Exocet, showing us how to tamper with the missiles.

A remarkable worldwide operation then ensued to prevent Argentina from buying further Exocets. I authorised agents to pose as bona fide purchasers of equipment on the international market, ensuring that we outbid the Argentines; meanwhile, other agents identified Exocet missiles in various markets and covertly rendered them inoperable.

It was a remarkably successful operation. In spite of strenuous efforts by several countries - particularly Israel and South Africa - to help Argentina, we succeeded in intercepting and preventing the supply of further equipment to the Argentines, who were desperately seeking resupply.

While our task force was still sailing south, I had some sad personal news: my mother had died of a stroke, after several years of serious disability. On Wednesday, April 21, my daughter and I flew down to Devon for her funeral.

Northam Church was quite full. Several of us were in tears, but it was a lovely sunny day; and as my mother's coffin was lowered into the grave, we looked out from the churchyard across Bideford Bay and the estuary of the River Torridge, where ships were coming in and out across the bar.

After lunch at my father's house, I caught a plane back to London - in time to hear Francis Pym making a statement in the Commons. It was a good speech, but by emphasising our desire for a peaceful settlement with almost every other word, he gave the impression that we could see one in sight - that it was only a question of one final heave and we would be home and dry.